Trials of Penance
by shakespond
Summary: Though the war has ended, the pain continues to thrive. Set post-Mockingjay, in a world where the final Capitol games are announced. (Sightly AU, in the sense that Effie would not have been eligible.)
1. Chapter 1

I stand, frozen in place. The voice over the speaker sends vibrations down my spine, making my already existing shivers feel welcome, at home. Unable to calm my nerves, I grip Haymitch's arm tight. He doesn't look down.

From the stage, Paylor's face is one of regret. But it has been decided now, and so the reaping shall commence. I am surrounded by Capitol citizens: some still set in their old ways, some as changed as they can be. But the one thing that conjoins them all is the fear they seem to face, as though they would rather it be anyone else. And as for myself? I simply wish for the waiting to be over.

Reaching into the bowl, Paylor pulls out a slip of paper. My name is there somewhere, written amongst the dead my actions contributed to. I am merely a statistic now, destined to be nothing more. The voice is emotionless, unfaltering, as it says, "Effie Trinket." Vaguely, I wonder whether mine used to sound the same.

I release a breath I had been holding for far too long. Free of fear, I unlock my clasp on Haymitch and stand up straight, momentarily dazed. I suppose I deserve it. For years, I was the one standing up there, dealing the cards. I played a God-like superior, casting my decisions on the unsuspecting, the helpless. To think that my hand would be the difference between someone's life or death. Those decisions shall haunt me until the day that I die. Which, at this rate, may be soon.

I hear Haymitch's voice catch in his throat, but he does not speak. I wonder if he will enjoy watching me die. Perhaps our team was more one-sided than I'd first assumed. At least the war has been won, I tell myself, though the war seems never-ending. And for a second, I am glad that I was chosen, not only as penance for the deeds I have done, but for the safety of the children whose faces now turn to mine. Regardless of whether they voice this opinion, I am sure the others feel the same. Too many have suffered to turn back.

I begin the walk to the stage, feeling all eyes on me. Some pitiful, others neglected of everything but vengeance. As I make my way up, and gaze out at the crowd, I smile sadly at the irony. Paylor snaps me back to the present, gently maneuvering me to the microphone. She motions to speak.

My body begins to feel drained, but I tell myself that I will not cry. I do not deserve that freedom. Gripping the microphone tight, desperate for something to hold onto, I clear my throat. "I'm sorry," I begin. "I'm sorry that I was born into the Capitol. I'm sorry for what my job entitled. But I'm not sorry that I'm here. My survival ensured my eligibility to be chosen, which meant in itself that one of your children were not." Here, my voice catches slightly, and I find myself having to pause. "Don't screw this up again."

I stop, saying no more. My eyes meet a few of the crowd, a silent plea. But before long, I am ushered backstage, shoved into a tightly-packed room. It is here, alone, that I finally let a tear fall.

The games are played out as before. They tell me I have three visitors, but I don't want to hear. Yet as I stare silently, at nothing in particular, the door ahead of me opens, Haymitch close behind. He stares at me for a while, seemingly taking in my every move. I try to appear strong, unfazed. As though it was expected.

"You did well out there," he says, after the silence grew too long.

I nod. "It would be despicable not to." My hands feel rough, the nails bitten to stubs. Defiantly, I keep my head down.

"Trinket," Haymitch says again. The desperation, so well hidden behind his gruff demeanour, encourages me to meet his eyes. "Try not to die."

Again, I nod, feeling like a child's toy, stuck on repeat. But haven't I always been? He leaves the room, hands shaking as the doorknob turns. I tell myself it's the alcohol withdrawal. I'd rather die with little, in contrast to diminishing, hope.

Katniss and Peeta soon find their way to my room. Peeta peers cautiously around the door, most likely checking that it is safe to enter. I smile, refusing to be anything other than my usual self. They have been through enough themselves. "Katniss, dear! Peeta!" I trill, standing and wrapping my arms around their necks. The warmth of another human is comforting.

Their faces remain sombre as Katniss turns to me, hands locked on mine. "Keep safe, Effie. You deserved better, too." I squeeze her hand in silent gratitude.

"She's right," Peeta says. "We're a team." Looking at the faces of my former tributes, my fate seems grave. They were strong, intellectually skilled. I am neither of the two.

"Enough of this," I say after a pause, the words spilling out. "I had better not be late. Always remember: first impressions are vital!" As they leave the room, I find myself wishing I had said more. But there is time for that later, and they already know.

The following train ride passes in an almost reputable silence. As we near the last forty minutes of our journey, Haymitch stumbles in, bottle held loosely in hand. I am not surprised to see him obliterated by liquor, nor do I care. Holding the pages of my magazine tighter, I struggle to focus, his incoherent babbling making a simple task impossible. "You know, I don't understand how they expect anyone to survive," he mumbles. "You're all thick as shit."

"You agreed to it," I say, not even attempting to defend myself; I am too tired to struggle.

Indifference coats his voice, a spiteful additive, as he says, "True."

Returning to my current distraction, I try to drown him out. He pauses every now and again, and I believe his rambling to have ceased, until he takes another swig from his bottle, and picks up from where he left off.

Finally feeling myself snap, I slam a fist onto the table, sensing the mark that shall be left beneath my fingers. "Careful," he slurs. "It may be mahogany."

A sense of shame stirs deep in my stomach, triggered by my own words, as though I may cave in around it at any second. Closing my eyes, I slump back into my chair, feeling the inevitability of my death, and the hurt of having no one to truly care, all at once. It feels good, this pain. Earned.

As the train slows to a halt, I come to the realisation that I must have fallen asleep. Adjusting my wig, and checking my makeup in the nearest mirror, I step off the platform. Outside, no swarming crowds fight for a closer view, no one eagerly awaits my arrival. I make my way inside and am introduced to my prep team. They offer advice, readily awaiting their return to the world of glamour. I refuse everything.

"Effie." Haymitch stands in the doorway. "I hear you're refusing all help."

"So what if I am?" I say, wanting nothing more than to head to my room, curl up under the covers, and wallow in self hatred.

"Training starts tomorrow. I offered to mentor."

"How very diligent." My hands twitch, the need to escape this conversation increasing.

"I'd rather watch you die with dignity," Haymitch growls, finally leaving me to myself. Venturing into the elevator, I stare at my reflection. Faint scars line my cheeks, slowly becoming visible as the makeup begins to wear away. A tear cuts through my powdered face. Before I step off, I regain my composure, masking my pain with an indifferent, if not slightly hostile, facade.

Unlocking the door to my room, I yank the clips from my hair, throwing the wig aside. The bed stands a mere five feet away. Five feet too far. As I flop onto the covers, shielding my face with a pillow, I release a frustrated scream. In silence, I lay for hours. I don't think about the passing time.

A loud noise stirs me from my solitude. "Effie, get up," Haymitch spits through the door. Pretending not to hear him, I turn over, suddenly finding the wall particularly interesting. I hear a rattling, followed by a crash. Haymitch stumbles into my room, slightly disorientated from the sudden attack.

"What do you think you're doing?" I trill, staring as he straightens himself out.

Haymitch shrugs. "Saving your ass."

Dragging myself out of bed, I glance at the clock. It seems tomorrow arrived sooner than I'd thought. As I reach for my wig, Haymitch grabs my arm. "Just leave it."

Removing myself from his grip, I say, "Fine."

Haymitch fills me in, telling details of how I am to go straight to training. I barely listen, occupying myself with the golden bracelet that hangs loose around my wrist. As we enter, I take in the other tributes, finding that I know not one. Most are much larger than me, towering over my height. Others seem agile, strong now that the Capitol signature is removed. And then there's a little girl, not much older than twelve. She smiles at me, and I return the gesture. Whoever she is, she does not belong here.

Once the talking is over, Haymitch tells me to head for the stations that offer survival skills. Reluctantly, I do as he says. The basics seem easy enough to pick up, and by the end of the session, I am certain that I know a sufficient amount. At one point, the girl from earlier comes over to me, questioning as to how I made the knot in my hands. I teach her, wishing she did not have to know.

A few days pass, and Haymitch finally decides that I need to move on. We argue a little as I demand that I stay and tie knots for the duration of the week. Eventually, I give in. He leads me to a rack of knives, stating facts and statistics. I try to listen, attempting not to appear rude, but my gaze can't help but shift to the others, who, despite their Capitol origins, appear to be handling the weapons with ease.

I am brought back to my current predicament as Haymitch shoves a knife into my hand, wrapping my slender fingers around the handle. "Throw this," he says slowly, "At that target." I look up, and the holographic figure suddenly seems so far away. "Remember what I told you." His advice would be useful, if I did, in fact, remember.

I grip the dagger tight, eyes blurring out of focus. Before it's even a metre away, I know that I have missed. And from the sharp intake of breath beside me, I know Haymitch realises this too. We continue trying, Haymitch neglecting to tell me just how terrible I am. Perhaps he feels he does not need to say what I already know.

Training soon comes to an end, and I have made no further improvement. Not that I mind. The sooner I die, the quicker this finishes. Haymitch leads me to a room, but I do not need him to explain this part. I shall present my chosen skill to the gamemakers, the rebels. There is not much difference between the two.

I do not know at which point I will enter, so I sit and wait with the others. As the numbers diminish, I have a good feeling that I shall be last, or at least near the end. And I am right. With only one other person left in the room, my name is called.

Standing straight, patting down the creases in my trousers, I exit through the small door. The space that awaits me is large, the audience expecting something memorable. "Miss Trinket," a voice calls. I turn, half dazed. Far above my head, behind a shimmering screen, stands the head gamemaker. "Please present your chosen skill."

"No," I state, eyes piercing through the veil which separates us.

"Care to explain yourself, Miss Trinket?" he says.

"I have nothing." I practically hiss the next word. "Sir."

And then I turn. Powered by Katniss' previous ambition, along with my own disgrace, I leave. Except there is a difference. Katniss showed strength, her own skill protruding through her determination to stay alive. I showed defiance, as though it was the last move of someone already destined to die. It was.

Tonight, I sit alone on the couch. Staring at the television, I begin to regret the events of today. I should have done something- anything. But it's too late now, and so I watch in anticipation as the tribute's scores are shown on screen. I receive a zero. What a pity it was expected.

Haymitch comes striding in at this point, his face a range of emotion. "What did you do?" he gawps, mouth wide open.

"Nothing," I say. "I did nothing."

And I can't help but smile, for there is nothing left to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Head submerged in water, my thoughts come fast. There is no barrier between myself and the unforgettable, and so we are left alone. My eyes sting from the exposure, and my brain feels light, but I do not come up for breath just yet. As strange as it sounds, I do not wish to consume this air. I do not wish to consume anything. If I could fade away this very day, it would be a relief. The barrier would be broken, but needless.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, desperate to be rid of all that I have seen. It is a pity that sights cannot be rinsed away, left to rot in empty silence. When I can withstand the lack of oxygen no longer, I sit up, irritated that I did not have the strength to remain subdued, where I can cause no harm to anyone but myself.

Thinking back to Haymitch's entrance, a shudder runs through my body. It reminds me that I am alive, no matter how much I wish not. "What were you thinking?" he had muttered, the scent of liquor resonating from his body.

Not daring to lift my eyes, I curled tighter into myself, gripping the thin fabric of my shirt with a formidable strength. "I wasn't."

Haymitch did not respond. Instead, he draped an arm over my shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the extent of my discomfort. The room had felt undeniably smaller, guilt seeping from my being. It filled each crevice, each fracture I had once owned. Though it was only us two, we were never alone; tormented, I am never at peace.

Finding I could not handle the company, I ushered Haymitch away, declaring that I would be fine for the night. I doubt that he believed it to be true, but what does it matter? None of us are truly fine.

Interviews are tomorrow, and I am most certainly dreading the struggle I shall face. My personality will be described as insufficient, mediocre at best, and suggestions shall be offered, regardless of whether or not I wish to follow them.

With a profound sigh, I lift myself from the water, missing the touch it left on my skin. Finding a towel already waiting to be used, I wrap it around myself. It is not the same. My bed is once again my only comfort. A cold sheet my lone companion.

I pull the cover closer to my face, already feeling the quake that threatens my hands so often. Sleep comes slow, distant memories playing on my mind. The past is relentless, an unforgiving cavern. It draws you in, holding firmly to your sanity, taking what you have tried so hard to recover. Sickened, I drift away, hoping my brain shall be kind. But that is not how things work.

The next morning, I awake easily, affected by the decisions I appear to have made overnight. I question what it is to be: is existence merely an unavoidable fate, a journey which one must go through; is it neverending, an extended torture? Or is it only judged upon the decisions we make, the trials we withstand? I hope it is not the latter, for mine have not been very well informed.

Downstairs, breakfast is laid out above compare. The scent intrigues my senses, and although I try hard to push it away, I cannot deny the hunger that I feel. I silently take my seat, a chair next to Haymitch. He is happy enough, steadily making his way through a leg of chicken. Then again, he has every right to be.

Haymitch finally seems to realise my appearance. "Hungry?" he asks. Despite the growing tension in my stomach, I shake my head. Haymitch stares at me, his expression hard, before turning back to his food. I believe I have avoided further questioning, until he shoves his plate to the right, leaving it toppling in front of me. Slightly baffled, I meet his eyes. "Eat it."

"Haymitch, I said-"

"Eat it, Effie." The sternness in his voice leaves me taken aback. Picking at the meat, I weigh up my options. Neither seem particularly appealing, but I see no reason to cause more fuss than necessary. I begrudgingly shove the chicken into my mouth, secretly savouring each bite.

After a few hours alone, I am taken to wait backstage. Dressed in a simple black dress, I feel naked. It takes all my strength to withhold from the wigs I am so very accustomed to. Caesar tries to get the crowd going, but all efforts fall flat.

Hoping that I appear less nervous than I feel, I attempt to stabilise my breathing. As the minutes pass, I grow more and more irrational, almost gnawing at the tips of my nails. The prep team shall be appalled.

Haymitch finds me, huddled in the corner of a darkened room, whispering sweet nothings to myself. Taking my hand, he leads me out, shaking my shoulders when I do not react. "Pull yourself together, Trinket," he snarls. "A lot rides on this."

My arms shake, and tears threaten to spill. "Please let go," I whisper, scared to raise my voice, knowing that it is far beyond my capability to speak with even the slightest hint of normality. He does as I ask, and I am sure that I did not imagine the sadness in his eyes.

"You'll be fine," he says, pushing my small body forwards with ease. There is no time to thank him.

Before long, I am seated next to Caesar, answering questions that no one really cares to know. I respond evasively, my expression unchanging. Though Caesar tries hard to hide it, exasperation lines his features, aging him profoundly. I make no attempt to change.

The aftermath is just as wearisome. Haymitch tells me I blew all chances of gaining sponsors. I shrug in response, angering him further. It is unclear to me, why he is so worked up, specifically over what should be such a simple matter. Deep down, I wonder if his affections run deeper than I had first assumed. I hope they do not, for that is just another scar to be left behind. Etched into the path I find myself walking.

Tonight, sleep does not come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Every now and again, I find myself reminiscing, thinking of the life I used to lead. If I feign ignorance, it is almost beautiful. But ignorance is not always bliss, and bliss is hard to find.

Two hundred and sixty seven. That's how many tiles lie above me. The night moves considerably slow, tomorrow more than a dream away. I know that I should sleep, that the energy will be needed, but I cannot bring myself to close my eyes.

Eventually, the night must have grown too much, for I find myself awakening to the alarm. The next few hours pass in a daze; I am there, but barely conscious. My prep team arrive, and just this once, I allow them their fun. My hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail, loose blonde strands framing my face, and I am dressed into a simple design of vest, jacket, and mud-coloured bottoms. Once they are finished, Haymitch and I are left alone. He walks over to me, adjusting my collar.

"Haymitch," I whisper, standing still as stone. Meeting my eyes, he pushes the hair from my face. "I'm terrified."

It is the first time I have admitted this fact since the day my name was drawn. No matter how much I believe it to be deserved, I cannot settle the growing fear.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry." I believe his words. I have to.

"So this is it?"

"Maybe so." Unable to bear it any longer, I throw my arms around him. He stumbles back a little, but doesn't dare move me. "You'll be okay, Princess," he says, lips moving against my hair. "I won't let you die." The sentiment is sweet, but we both know that there is nothing he can do.

"Look after the kids for me," I say, smiling as I pull back, straightening his tie. "Don't you dare be late to their wedding." And even Haymitch can't help but chuckle.

From behind, the countdown begins. The sweat on my palms increases, and my heart rate soars. Standing straight, I take a shaking breath. 24. 23. 22. I make my way over to the chute, eyes searing with the tears I fight to hide. 21. 20. 19. Feeling my throat close up, I turn, seeing Haymitch for what may be the final time. 18. 17. 16.

"Keep away from the bloodbath," he tells me. "Don't look back, and don't stop running."

I open my mouth to reply, but it is too late. The platform has already began to rise, and Haymitch is no longer in sight. Spinning around, hands pressed against the glass, I strain my neck for any former view of what I may face. It is only as I rise from the ground that I see it.

Eyes struggling to focus on what lies ahead, I try to make sense of my surroundings. White sky. Frosty landscape. Hidden sun, fingers of light stretching down. I see the Cornucopia, roughly fifty metres away. The path to it is covered in a thick layer of snow, unmelting. Tenderly, I outstretch a hand, desperate for something pure, untainted. But of course, I am wrong. This snow is no better than a handful of poison berries. Though I believe it to be safe, it is still manufactured. False.

In the distance, somewhere between myself and the horizon, I make out a variety of treetops. Vines hang low, and howls can be distinctly heard, no matter how far away I stand. Shivering as the countdown from ten begins, I squint my eyes, trying to see further. Beyond the trees lies the unknown. Perhaps I shall venture there one day.

Then the gong sounds. Haymitch's words echo in my mind, and I make a run for it, dodging the path of the Cornucopia. From behind, I hear screams of antagonising pain, victorious cheers. The snow crunches beneath my feet, and I find myself sinking lower. Although I try not to think of it, I soon realise that the jacket on my back shall not be enough to survive the elements. Images of previous years flash through my mind, the tributes I so happily escorted freezing to death, trapped amongst the icy terrain. It was not a quick end.

My legs move fast, scampering over rocks and fallen branches. Every now and again, I trip, heart momentarily stopping. The cold is getting to me now, nulling my senses. I think I hear a twig snap to my right, but I don't stop to check. After about an hour, I can run no longer. Gasping for breath, hands twitching despite the loss of feeling, I bend over. I find myself beginning to gag, but there is nothing to arise. No cannons have gone off just yet. I await the time my own shall ring.

Examining the den-like space around me, I decide that this is as good a spot as any to set up camp. It's almost homely, as though I am no more than an animal settling down for the night. I wish that was so. The air is growing dense, dropping dramatically in temperature. If I do not take action soon, I shall be dead within an hour.

Caring little for safety, I attempt to light a fire, regardless of the consequences. I am not stupid; I understand the course this could take. But I do not care. Funnily enough, I just wish to be warm. Home.

Wherever home is.

Not one spark is produced as my attempts lessen, the hope slowly draining out of me. The clouds overhead burst as night falls, snow cascading down in a blizzard of white. Each flake is just another knife, burning its way through my skin. It settles on the floor around me, closing in. There is nowhere to hide.

Throwing the twigs aside, shuffling closer to what little vegetation there is, I curl in close to an old tree. As I try to shield myself from the weather, I wish that I could simply seep into the bark. My extremities are frozen, blood chilled. I feel all life draining from my body, teeth chattering fifty times a second. And this is only the first night. If I survive, which at this point seems unlikely, I will be too feeble to be of any use- not even to myself.

I close my eyes, hoping for the pain to end.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of foraging, a distant shuffle, makes my eyes snap open. Weaponless, I sit up, silently praying that if so, my death shall be fast.

A boy stands five feet away, back partially turned to me. His hands search frantically around my make-shift camp, and together, his dark hair and almond eyes stand out against the snow. At my best estimate, he is no older than seventeen years of age. I do not appear to be of any threat.

Touching a hand to my frozen lips, I feel that they are ice cold. It would not surprise me if this boy assumed me to be already dead. My limbs are stiff, and moving is almost an impossibility. "There's nothing here," I say, but my voice is dry and cracked, barely audible.

He turns, hands twitching against his side. "I didn't realise you were…"

Weakly, I attempt a smile, showing him that it's okay, that I do not mind. The gesture hurts. "You looked so small, so cold," he mumbles again, awkwardly shoving his palms inside his trouser pockets, seeking the warmth.

"You don't have to stay."

He pauses, noticeably torn. "I could be your ally," he begins. "We could work together. We could survive. You and me."

"Allies," I repeat, testing it out on my tongue. The boy nods, stepping closer. His gentle demeanour seems to solidify my answer, for he does not deserve this. To travel with me would mean to slow himself down. Though I realise he is doing this for fear of my death, I cannot accept. "No."

At first, he seems shocked, but his composure is shortly recovered. "I have blankets, food. The bloodbath was small." I sigh, almost feeling the frost in my throat, his reluctance to leave based upon supplies. If I believed myself able to help, I would not care if he had nothing.

"Just go," I say. My voice is small, but determined nonetheless.

Expression troubled, as if deciding whether to move on, the boy glances between myself and his former path. With a sad smile, and a nod in my direction, he jogs away, disappearing into the white. But not before throwing a blue blanket my way. It is a gift, given by an angel. My frozen saviour.

Borrowing strength from his light, I force myself to stand. Shakily wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, I begin to walk, diverging from my original plan. If anyone is near, let them come. Just let them come.

Soon, the terrain begins to change, dry sand rustling beneath my feet. I realise how much worse this could be, but I carry on. My legs begin to move automatically, mind some place else. As I find myself peeling off the blanket, draping it over weak arms, it registers that I did not even notice the sudden temperature shift.

My mouth tries to adjust to the change, lips cracked and ever-increasingly dry. And it is then that I realise just how dehydrated I am. Glancing around, I see nothing but the dusky glow of desert, stretching for miles before me. No footprints can be seen.

Ignoring the scorching sand, disregarding how it burns through my trousers, I slouch down, finding a seat where one is not. Little energy is left to walk, to move. My head lulls forward, and I don't fight it, forehead stinging from the contact.

All I need is water, but I would not know where to begin. Katniss would know, if only she was here. I close my eyes, drifting through a hazy dream. It is one of darkness, of torturous nights. Ones I had began to forget. Sucked in, I fight to escape, but I cannot. I am always trapped here.

A falling parachute snaps me from my daze. Grasping the box tight, I slip off the lid, peering within. The movement hurts, and I am shocked with what I find; atop a white woolen sheet lies a single leaf. I stare at it for a while, wondering whether it is somebody's idea of a joke. Disbelief lining my features, I reach for the note.

_Think. - H_

And I do. Embracing the pain as it stretches through me, I sit up once more, leaf held close to my body. It feels as though I am clinging to it for dear life. Perhaps I am.

Then it finally hits me. Rushing to my feet, I let my green lifeline fall to the ground. I understand the money it would cost to send more. Surely Haymitch would have tried to do his best with what he had. If the terrain has changed once already, perhaps it will do so again.

Not daring to think of the possibility that I may be wrong, I venture onwards, certain I must be near. The minutes pass, and I begin to wonder whether I had misunderstood. But I have nothing else, and so I continue.

Beginning to lose myself amongst the sand, I see a subtle green glow on the horizon. Squinting against the sun's reflection, I hope that my eyes do not deceive me. As I near my only hope, a rainforest comes into view. Trees circulate the land, and grass grows thick. What does Haymitch want me to do? I think, delving deeper into the part of my brain I have never had reason to use before.

Things finally begin to fall into place. With an almost deranged laugh, I find myself collecting leaves, piling them up beside me. Attaching them to the blanket, I thicken my only defense. Once done, I stand back, admiring my handiwork. I have almost made a shawl, a mechanism that may lead to my survival. But as I stare around me, a thought begins to work its way into my mind.

Could these be the same trees I saw all that time ago? I have met three terrains so far, but what if that is all there is? What if this is the entirety of the arena? Ideas coming fast, I struggle to keep up with the revelations I appear to be uncovering. If the previous is true, then this should lead straight back into snow, into where my troubles first arose. I pray for it to be so.

As the sun begins to set, I feel the first snowflake on my cheek. It is welcomed, only confirming my suspicions. Finding a small bottle cameoflaged against the white, I feel as though things are finally going right. As though I am being watched over. The flask is soon filled with snow as I make my way back. With each hundred metres I cover, the temperature increases, and I smile a little more, watching the snow melt.

Satisfied, I make camp in a small cavern- built with blocks of stone, yet hidden from plain sight. The moon rises, and I await the cannons. As the faces appear in the sky, I feel nothing. This only shames me.

Nearing the end, I find myself greeted with a familiar face. The boy from earlier stands sombre, eyes null of all but pain. My chest constricts, breath hard to find. Pulling the blanket close, inhaling its scent, I hope that throwing it to me did not affect his survival. For if it did, I do not think I could live with myself. I struggle with that already.

I am soon awoken by a low sound echoes, endlessly multiplying. Heart racing, I push myself against the wall. I could not move if I wanted to. Before I even have the chance to think, teeth sink deep into the neck of my shirt, missing my skin by a mere centimetre. I am dragged out, body struggling against the beast's brute strength.

After escaping the initial grip, I begin to remove items of clothing, one by one. I start with my socks, slowly edging away. My bra follows, top and jacket covering everything that needs to be. What do I have left to lose?

As a child, my mother would read me a story each night. One was my favourite, always requested. Little did I know then how the information may come to hand. In the case of encountering a polar bear, one would need to remove clothing, the animal's interest in your scent being larger than its interest in you. I only hope that these creatures follow similar instincts.

When I believe myself to be a reasonable distance away, I make a run for it. My eye catches on a large stone structure, its architecture remarkably similar to that of the pyramids. The creatures bite at my leg, tearing flesh, but I manage to pull myself up, toppling rocks as I do so. A few directly hit the faces below, and as they retreat, I realise that they have had their fun.

Gasping for breath, clinging to any oxygen available, I hear a child's cry. The sound rattles through me, altering my very being. I rush to the edge, peering over, and as I do so, I meet the eyes of a little girl. Recognising her face, I try to think back, desperate to remember. And then I do. All those days ago, all those nights, she had smiled at me during training. I'd smiled back, tried to appear as friendly as I could. I can only hope that she remembers, too.

With an awkward cough, I draw her attention to myself. Her eyes are wide, entranced. "It's okay," I stutter out. "I won't hurt you."

Eyeing me carefully, she turns for a better view. "I remember you. Your smile." This fact warms me slightly, the recognition settling my fear.

"Are you injured?" I ask, shyly pulling her to my level. "What's your name?"

She nods, motioning towards her leg. "Thalia." Pausing slightly, she gauges my reaction. "What's yours?"

"Effie. Effie Trinket."

"I like your hair." And then all at once, I see her for who she truly is. A little girl, ignorant to the world and frightened at the present. Before I can respond, a package falls from the sky. I seem to be receiving a lot of these, no matter how much I repent the fact. Opening it with ease, I reach inside, pulling out a needle. I suspect it is to be used for my wound, an antivenom as such. My hands scramble for the note, sure that the price must have been intolerable.

_One rich sponsor, you got there. Use well. - H_

Deep down, I wonder whether Katniss or Peeta supplied the money, or even Haymitch himself. I see no reason why anyone else should bother, let alone care. If I was to look at myself now, I would simply walk away. Perhaps they should, too.

Awe consuming her eyes, brightening the iris', Thalia asks, "Were you hurt?" Her appearance is now dampened with a look of worry, one that I wish to erase.

Tucking my injured leg beneath my body, I shake my head. "No, not me. I had no more damage than a few scratch marks." I fight to keep my tone light. "This must be for you."

"For me?" And she seems so shocked that I almost burst into tears then and there. It is not right, for someone so pure to be neglected of care. Holding the vaccine between two fingers, I insert it into her leg, apologising profusely for the pain.

"You know," I say. "You remind me of someone."

"Who? Is it someone I know?" she asks, innocence radiating from her in bounds.

I wave my hand questioningly. "You may do." Rather insistently, she fidgets in her seat, desperate to hear. "Katniss Everdeen," I say, watching as her face lights up, seemingly happy with this resemblance. "She was also young when I met her. So strong."

It is now that I realise what I must do. Making a silent promise to myself, I accept the fact that I shall not be leaving this arena.

**A/N: I'd just like to use this space to thank everybody who is currently reading this story. Please do not hesitate to leave a review, as I'd absolutely love to know your ideas on what is working- or what isn't. Even just to hear your opinion on the story as a whole. Once again, thank you, and I hope you enjoy this installment. **


	4. Chapter 4

As the moon begins to ascend, I realise that I have reached my second night in the arena. It feels much longer, as though I have spent a lifetime here. Although, I suppose I have. I dedicated my life to these games, and now I shall have the chance to experience their 'glory'.

Thalia lies next to me, staring up at the sky. She counts the stars, quietly forming the numbers on her lips. In the moonlight, her hair glistens. "Why are we here?" she asks, her gaze unmoving.

I tell her the truth, sparing a few unmentionable details. I tell her how the Capitol were wrong, how we fought to overthrow it. Fought for peace. "They only wanted peace," she says, eyes glazed over. "Yet we're still here."

Thalia asks if I played a part. And again, I do not lie. "I was an escort for District 12. I picked the names out of the reaping ball, made sure they were never late." She looks at me with a broken expression, as though I have destroyed the image she once held of myself.

"And in the rebellion?"

"I worked with the rebels," I say.

"You helped the districts? Fought against the Capitol?"

"I did." Thalia stares at me for a while, thinking things over. I do not rush her, nor do I wish to know what she now thinks.

"Well," she finally says, "You're a hero, too."

And then she closes her eyes, shuffling closer, and in the light of the moon, she falls asleep. Her head rests in my lap. Ever so gently, I stroke her hair, wishing for nothing but her safety. I know it shall be a hard conquest, but one I am willing to endure.

Thalia's words echo in my mind, seeping energy from my already limp form, for I am no hero. I do not deserve the title, nor the thought. There are sixteen faces in the sky tonight, the first time I can truly count. I have avoided death this long by luck, but now my survival plays a part in Thalia's, and I cannot let that go unnoticed.

When I awake, I immediately sit up, feeling the loss of Thalia's heat. She stands below, gathering supplies. At first, I panic, fearing her safety. But she has improved, walking with no more than a slight limp. Too scared to assess the damage done to my own leg, I keep my eyes on her, watching as she picks the berries with ease, seemingly knowing exactly which to avoid. Thinking of how well I'd be if the task was done myself, I cringe at the possibilities. These berries are not familiar, nor were they taught at training. How Thalia is so very knowledgable on the subject is a mystery to me, but one I do not question.

Realising my stare is on her, Thalia smiles, giving a small wave. I do the same in response, not failing to notice the similarity to the first time I saw her. The sun is shining brightly now, but this is neither good nor bad.

As Thalia expertly clambers back up, we bask in the morning glow, enjoying the limited peace we are given. And for this, we are thankful.

A portion of the collected berries is stored away, split amongst us both, in case we are to separate. I tell myself that I shall be the one not needing them, but I go along with the plan anyway, not daring to dampen Thalia's spirits. She is happy today, content. At one point, she turns around to me and says, "Effie?"

"Mm?" I respond, mouth full of juice.

"Thank you for being here- for staying with me."

I turn my head, hair following suit. "Sweetheart, I would never think to do any different."

"But," she begins, pausing soon after, "Only one of us can win."

She's correct, and she knows it. Yet still I say, "Hey, that's not what happened last year, right?"

Nodding, she gives a weak smile, placing her head on my lap once more. "I suppose so."

We lie like this for hours, silently enjoying the company. While she rests, I keep an eye on the arena, knowing that we have been left for too long. Soon, something will come. And as much as I wish I was not, perhaps for one of the first times in my life, I find myself being correct. Well-rested, yet still deprived of sleep, my actions take longer than they should.

"Thalia," I hiss, shaking her sleeping body. Her eyes flutter open, immediately turning grave. Pointing in the distance, I keep my voice low. "Can you hear it?"

Face squeezed in concentration, she nods. "Other tributes."

Taking her hand in mine, I begin to climb down, dragging her with me. As we reach the bottom, I grip her shoulders tight. "Listen to me," I say, urgency bubbling in my voice. "Keep running, and don't look back." I shove her forwards, watching as she tries to recollect herself. She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her short. "I'll be right behind."

Reluctantly accepting my answer, she breaks into a run, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. A grimace crosses my face as I no longer must mask the pain my leg emits. With Thalia far ahead, I peek a glance. The wound isn't doing well, and I know that infection has spread.

Burying my face in my palms, I release a sigh, allowing myself time to regain my composure. Behind, the voices move increasingly close. I start to run, but it is difficult. Before long, I have tripped, foot catching on a stray root.

As I turn my head, desperate to stand, one of the remaining male tributes stands before me, face beaten and bloody. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you," he says, voice a mix of anger and duty. His club is raised above my head, a single swing away from my eventual death.

I remain silent for a moment, breath ragged, thinking of those I shall leave behind. But I cannot give Thalia as a reason, not without letting him know that she is near. And so I accept what I must face. "I can't."

He swings the club. And this time, I watch.

Bracing for the pain that does not appear to come, I see the boy slump forward. Head resting on my leg, tongue lolled to the right. Thalia stands behind him, quivering hands clasped around the handle of a gun. She drops the weapon, tears brimming in her guilt-laden eyes. "I realised you weren't there," she stutters out, barely forming the words. "I thought he was going to kill you."

Rising to my feet, I pull Thalia into a desperate embrace, smoothing her hair and holding her hands still. "Sh," I say. "It's okay." But her crying does not cease. "Thalia, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to do that. It's okay," I say again, and my words are nothing but brutal honesty. I should have been the one to pull the trigger. Rather my conscience than hers.

As she pulls away, Thalia's eyes drift to my leg. Her voice is low, all sorrow dissipating into the ether. "You said you weren't hurt," she says.

I follow her gaze, locating the pink throbbing mess that is my wound. "You needed it more-"

"Stop lying to me!" she says, voice rising monumentally. "I'm not a child!"

And this hurts, for she is. A child who has had to grow up too fast, a victim of the world. Not bothering to insult her with further explanation, I say, "I'm sorry."

She looks up at me, eyes hard, before throwing her arms around my waist. "Next time," she says, tears streaking her face, "Take the medicine."

I agree, if only to please her. Whether she accepts it or not, she shall be the one to survive. It's time for her to let me go. "Come on, now," I say, standing tall. "We cannot get distracted."

Adjusting my vest, I am suddenly conscious of the cameras. Hidden and discreet. Sceptically, I wonder whether we are being watched right now. Do they enjoy our sorrow? Are people sitting at home, forever wishing that Thalia had kept on running? Brushing the thought aside, I tell Thalia we must keep moving North.

We walk for at least two hours before my leg is too painful to withstand the pressure. I find a stick nearby, grateful that it is roughly the correct size. Using it as a cane, we continue on. Thalia is growing tired; I can see it in the way she moves. Eventually, she turns to me, beads of sweat cascading down her features, collecting at her forehead. "Effie, I can't-" She cuts off, mouth dry. I know the feeling.

"It's okay," I say, once more feeling stuck on repeat. It is all I can do to keep reminding her that she will make it out of here. "We'll rest."

I lead her to a moss-covered rock, allowing her the seat. As she rests, I take the time to look around. No food can be seen, no water close. Thalia is fading away: cheeks hollow, sunken eyes. It is then that I realise just how hungry I am. Since the games began, I have eaten no more than a handful of berries, and I doubt Thalia has consumed much more. We are growing weak, neither of us truly having the capacity to hold on.

Pulling myself together, my sight rests on a single tree. It stands alone, unfazed by the climate, the ever-changing terrain. Believing this to be my only chance, I gather a few leaves, hoping they shall be enough. They are green, much like the moss surrounding us. Large and undamaged. I try to conjoin them, wrapping them around my leg. Perhaps if I pretend that the wound is not there, Thalia will too. Gritting my teeth, urgently trying to lessen my cries of pain, I pull the makeshift bandage tight. My eyes water ever so slightly, but I do not let this stop me. Once it is done, it can be forgotten.

A whimper from behind brings me to turn my head, the temporary loss of contact making my hand slip. Wincing in pain, I stand, recognising the sound.

"Thalia!" I scream, voice hoarse. As I run back to where I left her, I curse myself, regretting the moment I ever ventured from her side.

Coming into the clearing, my breath stops. Blood splatters the rock, seeping into the ground. I dare to raise my eyes, but the sight that awaits me is more than I can bear.


	5. Chapter 5

A girl grips Thalia tight, knife held to her throat. "Help me," Thalia sobs. "Effie, please. Help me."

Raising my hands, I meet the girl's gaze. "You don't have to do this." My palms are clammy, but I refuse to wipe them down just yet.

"But I do. Don't you see? I do. How else do I survive?" Her voice is hollow, fear wreaking havoc on her sanity. I allow a tear to fall as I realise that this is no murderer, no psychopath. It is simply a frightened young girl, unwilling to give up her life. But this is wrong. With such determination, I doubt she will ever back down.

"Please," I beg, heart beating ferociously beneath my chest. "She's so young, so scared."

Bitterly, the girl laughs, the knife now touching Thalia's skin. I see her wince as she comes into contact with the weapon, eyes frozen on me. "And I'm not?"

Head swimming with every possible outcome, I find it hard to focus on anything other than Thalia's life. "Then kill me instead. Take my life, not hers. Anyone but her." The words flow out, a plea to anyone listening. A sacrifice.

The girl seems to think this over, debating how much of a difference it would make, before saying, "Who would ever want yours?"

Before I've even processed her words, Thalia falls to the ground. I gasp, running to her limp form. Her eyes are open, but I am too late. She is already gone.

Hands clutching at my hair, pulling the stands, I struggle to catch my breath. No air is enough, and I do not deserve what little I receive. My chest feels constricted, and as I pull Thalia close to me, I do not even notice the girl slipping away. Why did she not kill me too? I think it would have hurt less.

I feel as though all of the life in me has drained away, leaving behind an empty, unwanted shell. Closing Thalia's eyes, I watch as my tears spill onto her forehead.

Hours pass, and as the moon begins to come into sight, I realise who is really to blame. Rising, I let out a scream, not caring who hears. The cameras are most definitely on me at this moment, and so as I look to the sky, I yell: "Are you happy?" My voice is rough, the words scraping my throat, each syllable just another piece of sandpaper desperate to escape. "She's dead," I shriek, and I repeat the words until their meaning is lost.

Lowering myself onto the rock where she once sat, I stare at her face. In the moonlight, she is a being of serenity, features lit up in the silver glow. An angel of darkness. I seem to be meeting a lot of those. A lot of people who I should not have outlived. Into my life, she entered quietly, but I shall never forget. Her destiny was laid out before her, a constant chase. It has finally caught up.

My body grows tired, shoulders hunched over. Refusing to avert my eyes, I cannot move. The promise I made to keep her alive has been broken, and I realise now. I am a danger. No matter how hard I fight to save them, I destroy everything I touch.

Broken, alone, and malnourished, I sit awake the whole night. My eyes burn with both tears and the call of sleep, yet I do neither. As I come to terms with my ever-growing self-hatred, I no longer wish to try. If I just stay here, I will eventually die, taking with me all those I have fought for. The chains of those I have wronged weigh me down, keeping me to this Earth.

Perhaps my punishment is that I shall never leave, watching helplessly as the ones I love fall apart.

As I fall apart.

A persistent beeping rouses me from my thoughts, shattering my peace of mind. I had almost switched off from everything entirely, lost in a world of my own. As I half-heartedly look for the source, peering through partially closed lids, a silver parachute lands in my lap. At first, I merely stare at it, unmoving. I deserve no help, no kindness.

Begrudgingly, I open the box, only aiming for the slip of paper. The strength it takes to uncurl the note is unfathomable, just another reminder of how frail I have become.

Keep running, and don't look back. - H

My eyes stare at the words for what feels like an eternity, taking in the meaning behind. I can only assume that there is one. Does he mean for me to keep going, to end these games? Or is this, in his own way, a form of comfort? Pinching the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply, I pull out the first gift, soon realising that there is more than one.

In my hand, wrapped tightly in foil, I hold a lavish pie. As the scent drifts through the morning air, I realise that I recognise the filling: Thalia's berries. Then all at once, I feel as though my heart has stopped. Not that I would mind if it did.

And not daring to show how it affects me, I pull out the next item. Water. Almost savagely, I rip off the lid, being careful to ration my supplies. As the liquid trickles down my throat, I long for more. But something in me urges to be cautious, to save it. Whether this is instinct or a deep-seated will, I do not know. Perhaps I never will.

Finally, my hand closes around a locket. I hold it to the sky, the golden casing reflecting light in all directions. I smile sadly, thinking of home. And opening the case, I see just that.

On one side, Haymitch sits, bottle in hand, an attempt of a smile on his face. I find myself laughing at the pained expression it results in. On the other, Katniss and Peeta grin brightly, hands held tight. I am unsure as to whose idea this must have been, but I am more grateful for this gift than I could ever express.

I place the locket around my neck, the closest I can be. "Thank you," I whisper, unsure if they can even hear me. But it is the best that I can do. The note, the items. It is as though they are willing me to continue. Reminding me that I have something to go back to, regardless of how little I think of myself.

I drag my hands down my face, rubbing my eyes in a rather vigorous manner, just as the anthem begins to play. Slowly, I look to the sky. There is the boy, the one Thalia killed in my defence. A women, not much older than myself. Her husband (I vaguely remember this from a clip I saw) appears next. Then there is Thalia, and the pain feels just as fresh.

Settling against a nearby tree, I decide that the time for rest has come. Alone, the night feels just as cold as the first, despite the unnervingly warm temperature. I realise that I cannot just sit around any longer. There are twelve tributes left, and they all must die for me to return home. It is a selfish thought, one that I wish I did not conjure. But it is there.

With an unwanted sense of rage, I decide that I shall have no trouble disposing of those who hurt Thalia, or contributed towards her death. I know that I should not be thinking of such things, that at least half of these people are not the real enemy, and yet I cannot rid myself of these ideas. Katniss once said that nobody decent ever won the games. According to this logic, at least I am eligible.

When I awake, an ominous chill coats the air. Something is not right, and I notice this almost instantly. The atmosphere feels suffocating, as though it no longer consists solely of oxygen. Glancing up, I see snow begin to fall, the sky clouding over with a dull grey.

Confused as to why I feel so on edge, I lean back against the bark, unable to put my finger on just what is wrong. And then the burning comes: slow at first, building up to an unforgivable climax.

Jolting upright, my hands instantly try to cover my exposed body, but the action does not help. With each flake that lands on my skin, another shock of pain electrifies my body. There is no escape, no cover from this attack.

I begin to run, arms quivering. Risking another look to the sky, a moan escapes my lips. As the flakes fall upon my face, they grace my features with yet another burning sensation. My eyes, though watering, scan the width of grey, and eventually, I see what I have been searching for. The cloud does not stretch over the entire arena; the snow does not cover each inch.

My feet move faster, despite the growing knowledge that other tributes must be there. I am trying to hold onto hope, but no one else seems to be co-operating. At this moment in time, all I can do is push the thought away, and pray for the snow to cease before I arrive there.

As usual, luck is not a friend of mine. I feel the burning begin to subside, and I know that I am here. Ever so quietly, I peer out from behind a tree, knowing that I am to be presented with the painful truth. Three tributes sit around a stack of weapons, two lost in sleep. Hoping that if I stay put, I can wait until the snow stops, I shuffle to place myself in a slightly more comfortable position.

But the movement was pointless. Hearing a twig snap behind me, I spin around, neck aching from the sudden movement. A girl stands before me, a grimace on her face. "I'm sorry," she says, and I do not find it hard to believe her. "I don't- I don't want to kill anyone." Taking a step closer to me, a tear trickles down her face. I realise what she is intending to do.

"And if I were to run?" I say.

"I'd have no choice."

She stares at me for a while, eyes sad. Extending my gaze, I look to the knife in her hand. "You could just let me go," I offer, knowing that my attempts are all but futile.

Closing her eyes, just for a second, she says, "I can't."

No matter how long I stand here, this exchange will always lead to the same outcome. I step into the clearing, hearing the girl's footsteps as they move away. Eyes wide, movements skittish, I look for another escape, but I am too late. The boy on watch has seen me.

With a grin already spreading across his face, he leans over, awakening the others. "Look what we have here," he laughs, eyes flickering from me to the pile of weapons.

The other tribute, a large, dark-eyed boy, eyes me curiously. He reaches over, placing a hand on his friend's trembling first. "Let me deal with this one."

As he begins to stand, I continue to search for a way out, an exit. Here, there is one against three. What chance do I stand?

And then the boy lunges forwards, gripping my hair with a strength far stronger than any retaliation I could give. "Effie Trinket, huh?" he snarls, but I can hear the humour in his voice. "I remember you."

Ignoring his words, I reach for the knife in the pile, stretching my arm as far as it will go. As soon as I have retrieved the weapon, the boy rushes to snatch it from my grip, but he has predicted my actions wrongly. Instead of lashing for his stomach, as he so quickly suspected me to, I swing upwards. At first, he is baffled, staggering backwards. I almost want to laugh at the confusion on his face. For the time being, I have the upper hand.

As realisation dawns on him, he looks to his fist, finding a large section of my hair held tight. "You bitch," he snarls, running towards me once again. But this time, I narrowly avoid his outstetched arms, making a dive to the left.

The others are closing in on me now, and before I have time to dream up an escape plan, the girl is throwing an axe my way. I duck, but it catches the side of my face, opening a large and gruesome gash. She smiles as though she has accomplished a great deed, but I am not dead. At least, not yet.

Grabbing the axe behind me, I find myself armed with two weapons. A feight I thought I would never have to face. The large boy strides over to the axe-thrower, throwing her aside in anger. "You missed," he grunts. "You could have killed her, but you missed." And I think I hear the snap of a neck, but I decide it is better to pretend I did not.

I look to my weapons, realising that I have absolutely no idea of how to use either one. Training wasn't exactly a strong point for me. Vaguely, I wonder whether Haymitch is celebrating how correct he was. He had told me I'd need these skills, that they would contribute to my survival, but I just did not focus. Oh, how I wish I could change that now.

Both tributes face my way, and I feel my legs shaking beneath my weight. This shall be a fight the cameras have been waiting for.


	6. Chapter 6

Teeth bared, the larger boy grins. His smile is full of malice, eager for bloodshed. "Let's get this over with, eh?" he says, eyes flickering with a want to kill.

I crouch down, ready to break into a run if need be. My muscles ache, the movement straining each bend, and my head pulsates. Yet I am careful not to show this, not to give them the satisfaction of my discomfort.

All those years I'd longed to see a battle such as this, never once did I think I would be a participant. Without so much as a flinch, I had now accepted the probability of my imminent death. Though I would try my hardest, test my luck, the odds were against me. I would face death as though he were an old foe, one who had been awaiting me for a long while. Free of panic, hand in hand, I would follow him into the darkening passage, only praying that he take pity upon my soul.

In a ragged stream, blood trickles down the second boy's face: red as dawn, the enemy's mark. Lodged in the open graze, a scrap of metal remains. The silver glistens beneath the sun, a sign of victory. But not for me.

Slowly at first, yet undeviatingly gaining speed, both tributes begin to make their way towards me. They circle my available routes, covering each path I could take. My breath is far from steady, rattling through my throat. I fight against the building sweat for a strong hold upon my weapons. The weapons I still do not know how to use.

As soon as my name was reaped, it seemed fairly clear that avoiding physical confrontation would be my only chance of survival. Standing here, that is now nullified. For this fight is the only way I shall leave.

Shakily, I take a step back. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. The ground beneath my feet feels soft, but as though it is spinning without my consent.

The large boy is the first to move. He throws himself my way, knocking me to the ground. As I struggle beneath his weight, he exerts all his force into keeping me still. Pressing a rough hand onto the middle of my chest, he holds a sword to my face, the metallic weapon pressed against my skin. The wound already inflicted upon my head begins to throb, and despite everything acting against me, I know that I must at least try to move my arm.

Ignoring his degrading snarls, I refuse to let my mind wander from the desired task. With an outstretched palm, my hand attempts to swing the axe. But I cannot. And I know this now. Know that I am unable to compete with brute strength, regardless of any survival skills I may happen to hold. And even those are minimal.

From the corner of my eye, I see movement: subtle and slow, but definitely there. Fighting against the hilt of the sword, and the boy's own renounced capability to hold me down, I lift my head. Only an inch, just to see behind.

There is another boy, but this one does not seem to be a threat. At least, not to me. No one else seems to realise his presence, his feet fast-paced, yet consistently stealthy. He meets my eyes, urging my silence, and I finally register the daggers in each of his hands. Fear, or perhaps resignation, must flicker over my features, for he places a single finger to his lips. I draw my eyes back to the direct trouble ahead of me, hiding what little hope has just returned.

The large boy increases his pressure on my body, the knife cutting into my skin. Pain racks my mind, but I focus on his face. Sweaty, red, and merciless. I cringe at the minuscule distance between us. "Finally stopped struggling?" he says, sitting upright. His mouth is drawn into a violent line, eyes deranged. But now it is my turn to smile.

Suddenly, the boy gasps, and I see the tip of gleaming silver protrude from his stomach. Risking a glance to the left, I see that the same has also been done to the second boy. Stabbed in the back. A body slumps onto mine, unmoving, and with a shudder of disgust, I realise that his blood has covered my clothing in a sickly red. At least this stain shall leave.

The previous holder of the knives walks over to me, hand outstretched, clearly undeterred. I take it, and he grips my palm tight, providing extra strength that I cannot supply myself. Pulling me up, the body rolling into the grass, he inspects my cuts. "They should be okay," he says. "Nothing too bad." I nod, staying quiet. "The name's Luke."

"Effie," I say, voice as low as a whisper.

We stand for a while, but there is something rather unnerving about his gaze. A suspicion that I cannot quite place. He offers an alliance, and I graciously accept, only for lack of any other option.

As we walk, Luke offering his arm for support, I can't help but find the situation odd. He seems forever calculating, unable to look me in the eye. But perhaps I am being overly cautious, thinking too far ahead. I can only hope that this is true. That my instinct to run is wrong.

The days pass slowly, and I grow increasingly close to this boy. Any doubt I once had is gone, replaced with familiarity. We do not talk much, but we seem to depend upon each other. I hunt for food; he sets up camp. It is a cycle that we do not think to change.

Never do we stop, only moving forwards. There is no looking back, no thinking of the past. This appears to have been an unspoken rule. But today, Luke turns to me and says, "So how did you end up in here? Thought you would've been excluded. I mean, it's not exactly a secret that you helped their side; the Capitol made a big thing about making that public."

I merely shrug, keeping my face indifferent. "It wasn't enough."

"Enough?" he asks. "For what?"

"I did things that I am mortally ashamed of. Things that should not be said. Perhaps this is my penance." His inquisitiveness, while not demanding, still finds a way to unsettle me. I am quick to change the subject. "So where are we sleeping tonight? I can keep watch, if you wish. I've had more than enough sleep."

"No, it's fine. I'll do it." I do not miss the twitching of his right hand.

A silence follows before I say, "It is really no trouble. You seem rather tired, and I would be more than happy to help. Really."

"Damn it, Effie!" he says, arms shooting upwards. Shocked, I stagger back, realising how little time it would take for him to reach me.

"I just-" I cut off, not really knowing what to say. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he walks over to me, drawing me in. His embrace is cold, his breathing desperate, but I find myself warming to his touch.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles into my shoulder. I tell him that it is okay. "I'm sorry, Effie."

His apology is true, almost too much so. There is intense hurt behind his words, as though whatever runs through his thoughts truly pains him. For a moment, I wonder if there is more to this apology than his outburst.

Composing himself, he pulls away, rubbing my shoulder comfortingly. "I'll keep watch."

"Okay," I say. But sleep is meaningless, anyway.

Tonight, we sit by a crackling fire, the leaves overhead masking the smoke. The air is cold, so what little warmth available is welcome. With a log each, we rest in silence. Luke tells me I should try to sleep, but this does not come easy. Instead, I stare into the flames, thinking of all and nothing, peace and war. Dust, burnt ember, gathers at our feet. In a dazed state, I think of how much they resemble the dead. Broken flames, remnants, scraps of what used to be. And they all gather in front of me, as though I am the one who made them fall. I brought them down from their victory.

The minutes turn into hours, and I can't help but realise how far from me Luke sits. His demeanour distant, staring into the darkness. He shivers slightly and looks my way. "Everything okay?"

I nod meekly, saying, "Sure."

A smile begins to break out onto his face. "Just enjoying the view then?"

Feeling a blush creep onto my cheeks, I am quick to brush the accusation away. "Of course not! That is.. that is a preposterous idea! I-"

"Hey, only kidding," he says with a wink, flicking a large section of hair from his eyes.

I resume my relaxed position. "Very well then," I say, "that's good to hear." But I am sure that he can sense my suppressed smile.

The night grows colder, though we are used to this now. Every now and again my gaze shifts back to Luke, wondering what he has experienced so far. If his time in the arena was anything like mine- or perhaps worse. Stretching out on a patch of clear ground, I pull the makeshift cover closer to my face, hoping to eliminate the chill. "Luke?" I say.

"Mmm?"

"What did you do before the war?"

He looks my way, grimacing slightly. "I was part of the production team that ran the game interviews. I thought it was good, you know? It wasn't as if I'd been told any different. My dad had the job before me, and I followed on in his place." His voice drops to a whisper. "I thought they were fantastic until a few years ago. An interview was broadcasting, and all I could see was a scared little girl. There was nothing I could do, and so I got used to the violence once again. But I'm sure you know how that plays out."

"And now?" I say.

"Now that violence is almost second nature."

With a sound of agreement, I turn my back, closing my eyes tight. Falling asleep to the sound of Luke's quiet muttering- words of rage and regret- I have no time for dreaming.

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**I'd just like to say thank you for every review that has been posted! I'm sorry this chapter took a little longer to upload, but I've just been really busy with school and such. Please continue to let me know what you think, and if you wish, take a look at my other fanfics. Thanks c: **


	7. Chapter 7

**Before I begin, I'd just like to say thank you to the following people: Alice; RayNicole; brookemopolitan; Charlotte; Guest (whoever you may be); Peeta; Angelpaint07; tap-Violeta; Nimara; and Linsane. I've really appreciated all of your reviews as the chapters have progressed, and am eternally grateful for you having taken the time to leave them. It means a lot.**

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I am soon awoken by a sudden collision. As my eyes peel open, I am struck with a sickening- if not clouded- realisation of a deep, throbbing pain resonating from the back of my mind. Luke's face hovers just inches from my own, and it is then that my view drifts to the large boulder in his hand. Searching his eyes questioningly, I look for any indication or reasoning for his actions, but I find nothing. His eyes are empty, hands like stone. In a predatory stance, he presses forward.

"Luke?" I manage to say, though the weight of his body restricts my airway. Beside us, a single leaf falls, having already turned brown. "What are you doing? What are you-"

"Damn it, Effie, don't make this more difficult than it has to be! Just shut up for once," he says, the boulder unwavering, voice cold.

My throat catches slightly, but I soldier on. The word 'betrayal' is nothing in comparison to how I feel. It is as though Luke has already hit me, for my head cannot comprehend this emotion. "If killing me is now proving difficult, why didn't you cut off the alliance before it got this far? You could have saved yourself an awful lot of trouble. Spared your conscience. Left my body intact." My words come out as an accusation, a strangled charge.

"They all died over night," Luke growls, "quicker than anyone- even yourself- could have suspected." I do not reply, and so he continues, talking as though I am no more than a child. "Everyone is dead, Effie. We're the last two."

Before his words even have a chance to sink in, I am moving: thrashing against his grip, determined to keep him away. My body is feeble, but I do not retreat. Despite the pain, my fighting does not cease. In my hopeless struggle, and his attempt to keep me still, I am sure that I have broken my ankle, and most definitely my wrist- perhaps even a rib or two. Pain engulfs my being, but in one final act of resilience, one final surge of adrenaline, I find myself shoving his body from my own.

I stand up, limping slightly to the left, and grit my teeth tight. My breath is ragged, uneven, blood trickling from various wounds. In a moment of weakness, I allow myself to think back to the previous night. How he had so persistently argued to keep watch. It was a stupid allowance on my behalf.

Luke's voice breaks the silence. "You sure can take a lot," he says. "Anyone else would be on the floor, begging for death to come fast. But you, you really do know how to stay alive. What a pity that willpower shall be wasted."

"What is wrong with you?" I hiss, partly from pain, partly due to disbelief. "One minute you're apologising, and the next you appear almost gleeful. Perhaps your priorities are misplaced."

Luke laughs, stepping closer. "Then, perhaps, so are yours. Instead of worrying about my wellbeing, I think the thought should be directed towards yourself. So weak, nothing left to lose."

"Right, because you have so much more to live for."

A moment of silence lingers once again. Narrowing his eyes, Luke closes the distance between us, his strides long and deliberate. With a clenched fist, he grips my neck tight, slamming my back into the nearest tree, and I notice the veins showing so prominently in his neck. As I gasp for breath, a whisper of silence passes his lips. I pray he feels remorse.

But before I can think any more, I find my consciousness being shattered, as my already damaged head collides with the bark. Vibrations rattle through my skull, breaking the reality I had grown accustomed to. My mind was barely pieced together to begin with, but now there was no hope for its recovery.

Feeling my body slump, I fight against the inundating pain; no wit could even begin to help me now. My thoughts are muddled, and I am unable to place them. Only one thing exists now, left alone to thrive, and that is agony. Pure, unaltered suffering.

My brain feels as though it has been pierced with a large needle, derived straight from the pocket of death itself. As a small moan escapes my lips, I do not fail to notice the prickling burn that courses through my blood, nor the wet grass beneath me. Vision blurred over, senses terminated, I remain on the ground, and simply wait for the final blow.

But it does not come. Instead, I am met with a new sound- one that I should know, but cannot quite recognise. As I attempt to focus on the words being said, I vaguely take note that an announcement is being made. "Stop," the voice calls, no urgency in its tone. "Step back, Mr Harroway."

Amidst the vortex of colour, I can just about place Luke's face. Confusion is etched across his features, a look of suspicion creeping in. "And why should I do that?" he challenges.

"She is dying, and orders from above demand your retreat. Step back, and you shall be crowned victor." Luke appears to debate this momentarily, glancing my way every now and again. But before long, he has accepted this fact, and takes a good five strides in the opposite direction. "Head to the Cornucopia," the voice says again. And he does.

As for myself, I do not need the reassurance. For surely, I am dead no matter where we go from here. _Why is this happening?_ My brain swims with ideas, but none are complacent with reality. Nothing makes sense anymore. Did they mean to extend my death, prolong the pain? I would not be surprised if this was so, and nor would I disagree.

After what I believe to be a few minutes, a helicopter flies overhead. The sound seems distant, far off, as though it was sent from another world. At first, I assume it has come to collect Luke, but the flight path is nearing towards myself instead. The leaves around me rustle, sharing whispered confessions, as the blades travel through the wind. And that's when Haymitch steps into the clearing.

I suspect it is merely a hallucination- no more than a figment of my own imagination- drawn to comfort me in my final moments. A present from my mind, if you will. An apology. But as he walks towards me, a shadow against the breaking dawn, I can't help but fall into its grasp. My hand immediately goes to the chain at my neck, clasping it with all the strength I can muster, wishing to never let go.

Reaching where I lay, Haymitch kneels beside my shaking form. His hair is tousled slightly, shirt dishevelled. "Your clothes look a mess," I mumble.

Haymitch stares at me, hard. There is no smile gracing his features. "They said I could come," he says. "That I could stay. Just for this."

I suspect that there is more to his words than he shows, as I question the lengths that he must have gone to, or the things that he perhaps risked, to be here. And his appearance only confirms one thing: that I am dying, that I shall be left to do so. Placing his head in his hands, he sweeps a tuft of hair from his eyes. "How did you get here, Effie?"

"I don't know," I say.

"I suppose not." The silence that follows is strangely deafening. As he sits beside me, not uttering a single sound, I begin to doubt things once again. Cohorts with rebels or not, Haymitch is no miracle worker. My head pulsates, and my vision twists.

"How do I know… you're real?" I pant, pausing to cough up a spluttering cloud of blood.

Haymitch reaches out, stroking my cheek with a touch far gentler than one would assume his rough skin could. The look on his face is enough to know that he is also feeling the warmth drain from my body, as I lean against his palm and close my eyes tight. This is enough. "Tell me about the new world," I whisper, no longer needing an answer. "The one you made."

"We made," he corrects. And the words that follow are entrancing: steps to a vivid landscape, a better view. I listen intently, hanging onto each word that leaves his lips. As time passes, I begin to feel all energy slip away, a slow breathing residing in its place. The thought of being unable to catch my breath consumes me, and panic is quick to arrive.

"Sh," Haymitch says, pulling me closer. "Sh, you're okay. You're going to be okay." I know that what he says cannot be true, and as I look up, I notice the beginning of tears start to form in his eyes, glazing over the grey. But he does not let them fall.

"I don't want to die," I say.

"I know." And then he's kissing my forehead, clasping his hand around mine.

Slowly, the pressure begins to disappear, and my grip on Haymitch- on this world- lessens. I try to move, to speak, but nothing cooperates. In the distance, a voice envelops me, but I struggle to focus on the words. The sound is calming, easing my fear, and I slip away. My last coherent thought is one of warmth, of safety. And then I am overtaken.

Stationary in a blackened realm, filled only with shadows and darkness, I drift. Memories from the past come back to haunt me, and I cannot escape the things I have seen. Not quite dead, yet not quite alive, I float endlessly.

I think of my time as an escort, how stupid it all seems now. So many years I wasted, helping no one other than myself. It could be said that my heart was in the right place, but that seems like no more than an excuse, derived to settle the consciences of those who wish for acceptance. I merely wish for forgiveness.

The rebellion soon comes to mind, things I tried so hard to forget. Sometimes, I believe that I deserved to be captured. But then, did anyone really deserve the fates that they received? The treatment was cruel, inhumane. And I find it hard to drag it all back up again. The things that happened to me, the things I saw. Some memories are best left unsaid.

I do not know how much time passes, nor can I tell reality from delusion. But now, after all of this, I can only remember one thing.

That I do not die alone.

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**First, sorry. And second, regardless of what happened, I'd just like to be clear that this is not the final chapter, and the story is not finished just yet.**

**Please do leave reviews, and let me know what you think- whether it's on what has already happened, or even what you think of the writing itself. (If you enjoy this, please also think about looking at the other fanfictions I happen to upload.)**

**Thank you c: **


	8. Chapter 8

The sky above turned a darkened grey. A gentle breeze whistled through the trees, swirling in apologetic circles at Haymitch's feet, licking at the blood-stained ground. And in his arms, the figure breathed her last, joining with the air in one final sacrifice. Time seemed to stop, and the man's body shook. With anger, or with pain, one couldn't tell.

"No," he whispered, stroking the figure's hair. Her skin was pale, having lost the warmth it once held. The glow that he so loved to see was gone. Oh, how he ached for it now. Gently lowering her head to the ground, the man stood up. He could not bear to look at her, to see the damage that he had caused. His feet stumbled back, desperate to put distance between himself and his creation, and this time, the action was no longer due to drink.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, pulling at the loose ends of his hair. And raising his face to the sky, he yelled out, "I take it back. My vote, my decision, I take it back!" Tears swam in his once dull eyes, and anguish - guilt- was all that could be seen. It was his fault. This would be his grand finalé.

A voice echoed throughout the clearing, but the words meant nothing to the man. For despite the power words held, they could not bring someone back, just like the immortality of thought is never enough to bring something into creation. Like the depth of the mind is never deep enough to hide a memory within.

And so, therein lies the inevitable truth, that this memory shall be his forever. In the day, when the sun has risen, and the clouds lie delicately in the sky, he shall see her in that moment. The way the grass rustled amongst her hair, and the light lit up her features. And when night falls, he shall see her in his dreams. They shall be dark, and they shall haunt him, for he believes he does not deserve anything less. And during the moments in between, when he is just floating on the bridge between consciousness and the dark, he shall forget. He shall believe that she is alive, that she is well. But then he shall fall further than he ever has before, his own heart shattering as the reality pierces through.

And so, he drinks until the liquor is gone. Until one day, his body gives up and he slips away- alone, troubled not by death. The diagnosis would say that the alcohol brought around his end, that his body could no longer take the strain. But it would be wrong.

For some say that every atom in our bodies was once part of a star, and what star can keep on shining when it has burnt the one it needs?

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_The End._


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